Нисходящая спираль
by Heuress
Summary: AU. Russian psychologist Ivan Braginski's life takes a downward spiral after the reappearance of his former friend. When he is introduced to a troubled teenager, Ivan grows to care for her like a sister, and will do whatever it takes to set her on the right path again. Little does he know that his new client is much more closely connected to him than he could ever have imagined ...


**A/N: I have yet again been hit by another plot bunny. This time, it's a pretty serious one (I think). I know I should be focusing more on my other stories right now (and completely rewrite them, too), but this was an idea that just wouldn't get out of my head. It is my understanding that not many people read these kinds of fics (and especially not by some newbie like me); however, I really wanted to give it a go as it seemed like such a fresh challenge to tackle. I hope it will be, at the very least, OK. If you haven't read anything else from me, then there's still hope that you'll find this decent. To put it shortly, I'm a complete amateur at writing and am trying to improve my writing abilities (wait, what abilities?). There will be some RusCan friendship in this, but it will be strictly platonic. Other than that, I have no actual pairings planned. This isn't meant to be a particularly dark story, but it isn't supposed to be a light one either. I really hope I do it justice. I really hope the characters aren't too OOC (although, admittedly, Matthew probably is). To be honest though, nothing much happens in this chapter. This chapter is just an introduction to give you some insight on who Ivan Braginsky is and what he does etc. Natalya will not appear in this chapter, but she will make an appearance in the next one. I'm glad that you've decided to give this story a shot, and if I haven't already scared you away, I'll let you get on with it. Enjoy :)**

**Chapter One- Starting Anew**

Seated inside his office, the hulking figure-of-a-man was hunched over his oaken desk, observing several documents sprawled out in front of him. He leafed through them, his uniquely-coloured eyes skimming over what he deemed unimportant as he did so. When he had finished analysing each and every manuscript, Ivan stacked the documents all in one pile in front of him. He did it so quickly that one of his fingers grazed against the edge of the papers, earning him a paper cut. Liquid the colour of crimson oozed out from his index finger, threatening to spill onto his precious documents. Bringing the injured finger to his lips, the Russian psychologist sucked on it lightly before wiping his finger on his bottom lip, smearing the sanguine fluid over it. It was very noticeable, as his lips were pallid in colour, so the young psychologist simply licked his lips, effectively ridding himself of any traces of blood.

With another glance at his papers, Ivan realised that he was finished for the day, having completed all of his assignments. He also noted for the first time that it was eerily quiet inside his cold, dimly-lit office, what with the only sound in the room being the rather audible, slow-paced ticking of the clock hung up on the wall to his left. Ivan stared at it through empty eyes, suddenly finding it very uncomfortable in here. Whilst the lack of noise hadn't perturbed him in the slightest during the time he had spent working, he found that it bothered him now that he had nothing to do, as it once again served as a reminder of how alone he was. Granted, it was most likely due to the fact that he didn't have any appointments for the remainder of the day, and it was true that he strongly disliked being needlessly disturbed at work, but still. The silence was oddly unnerving.

The psychologist dragged his uniquely-coloured eyes away from the clock and allowed them to trail down to look at the neat stack of documents before him. He permitted a contented sigh to escape his lips. He had finally finished this dull, tedious task. Now to put them in a safe place. Opening a drawer, Ivan inserted his hand and fumbled about for a tiny key. When he felt the cool metal brush against his skin, he grasped the key and took it out of the drawer, closing it afterwards. Eyes of dark magenta scanned his desk for the right scabbard, a large one sporting a shiny keyhole on its upper right corner. Thrusting the key inside none-too-gently, he twisted it and opened the drawer, pulling it towards him. Ivan gently lifted the stack of completed documents off the table and placed them carefully inside the cabinet, pushing it back into place once he was done.

Taking another furtive glance at the clock, the psychologist decided it was time to go home. Leaning forward in his seat, the taupe-haired man clicked the lamp off. He stood up, making his chair skid back and graze against the floor vociferously. He went behind it, lifting the chair up and tucking it under his desk. He snatched the cabinet key from his desk and pilfered a sleek, black briefcase before marching towards the coat hanger, which was currently positioned next to the door. He lifted his long, beige overcoat off the coat hanger and slid his arms inside the sleeves, adjusting the collar once both arms were covered. He grabbed a light, pinkish scarf and wrapped it tightly around his neck. Ivan slipped the little key inside his coat pocket, patting it with his right hand as he reached for the door handle with his left. He pressed down on the handle and pulled the door open. Allowing his eyes to traipse over the darkened room one last time, he slunk out of his office.

Mindful to lock the door behind him, the Russian psychologist took off down the halls with slow, steady footsteps. There was barely anyone left at the clinic, the sun having long set behind the shrouding clouds. Countless windows lined the winding corridor, making Ivan pause to take a moment to appreciate the view that the gargantuan building offered. The rays of light reflected on the freakishly tall man's face, making it luster in the areas that they touched. He raised a large hand to cover his eyes as the scintillation emitting from the sunlight caused him to squint. It was bright; blinding, even, and the psychologist took a step forward, slowly moving on. He was not pressed for time, not in any particular rush to get anywhere, and so he took as long as he pleased getting from the fourth floor to the ground level. Ivan informed the kindly secretary sitting behind her desk that he was taking his leave and, after successfully managing to check-out with little delay (the secretary was a kind woman, but a bit of a blather mouth), he promptly set off, plunging his left hand into his seemingly bottomless pocket while carrying his briefcase in his right one as he exited the building.

As soon as the automatic doors allowed him emanation, he was greeted by the cold, chilling gale. The wind was surprisingly forceful, however this did nothing to deter him as he forced his way through, burying the lower half of his face beneath his thick, long scarf. His light-beige hair billowed in the wind, his brilliant eyes of dark magenta squinching at what lay ahead. The ferocious gale rushed to his ears, drowning out most of the other sounds that could normally be heard in a bustling city. He continued on his way home, eventually arriving at the street where he currently resided.

Ivan came to a stop when he caught sight of the familiar local liquor store nearby, reminding himself that he had run out of vodka. Perhaps it was rather conventional of him, and that he was enforcing clichéd stereotypes, but the psychologist couldn't help but adore the tingling, fiery taste of vodka. Everyone close to him had always warned him that he was beginning to show signs of alcoholism, but Ivan had simply disregarded their wanton worries. After all, when had a little alcohol ever hurt anyone?

Making his way towards the shop, the magenta-eyed man took a moment to admire the interior of the store. He couldn't help but to lustfully eye the bottles of alcohol stacked on the shelves, his eyes shamelessly roving over everything alcoholic that the store had to offer (which was everything, with the exception of the chocolate bars and crème eggs at the counter, although they looked quite appealing, too) . He was about to move aside to open the door when his eyes met with a large sign hovering from behind the glass pane of the door, the words 'CLOSED' roughly scribbled on it with black magic marker. Clenching his jaw and berating himself for not having noticed that the store was completely devoid of any sentient being, he began to ponder the injustice of the world. Seriously, it wasn't even that late and the liquor store was usually open until eleven pm, so why it was closed so early was a complete mystery to him. Maybe the owner had decided to spend the evening elsewhere, or perhaps he was preoccupied with other things. Who knew? The only thing that mattered to Ivan was that he had no access to alcohol and he was in dire need of a good, strong drink.

Lost in his internal anti-shopkeeper spew, Ivan found himself gazing up at the sky, marvelling at how beautiful it looked. The sky wasn't anything much people deemed special, as it could be seen everyday, but to Ivan, it was second to beauty only to a sunflower field. His family and close friends had often remarked that Ivan had odd eccentricities and was easily enthralled by average, common little things. Ivan merely replied that he enjoyed the little things in life, as they were often the most easily ignored. Ivan forced himself to draw his eyes away as he began making the short trek to his apartment block.

It was walking back home in tranquil solitude that made him realise just how horribly dry his throat was. It was so awfully parched that whenever he swallowed, his larynx ached erroneously. It didn't take a genius to know that the only thing that would sate his rapacious thirst was a nice shot of vodka- or several shots. Like twenty. The thought of downing twenty shots of vodka made his mouth water in anticipation. Getting a grip on himself, Ivan shook his head in an effort to perish the libidinous thoughts of alcohol plaguing his mind. Now was not the time to be lost in frivolous fantasies of vodka.

As he reached his apartment building, the desire for a strong alcoholic beverage intensified tenfold. Ivan supposed he could always just go to the closest bar after he deposited his briefcase at home. He mulled that thought over in his head before deciding that that sounded like a very reasonable course of action. When he came to the front door of the apartment building, he stretched his hand out for the cool, brass handle and pulled it open, wondering why it wasn't locked. Once he was inside, he trudged up the first few flights of stairs, his free hand grasping the handlebars to help him move along quicker. He reached the third floor in practically no time at all, his hand plummeting deep in his pocket to protract a silver key. He inserted it in the lock and twisted the key, continuing to do so until he heard the satisfying click that assured him the door was unlocked. His hand on the handle, he pressed down on it and pushed the door open.

Stepping inside his flat, he pulled the key out of the lock and pocketed it. Ivan closed the door behind him and sauntered over to his kitchen, carefully setting the briefcase down on the counter. He smiled and made his way over to his fridge, grabbing a hold of the handle. Ivan opened it and bent forward a little so that he could observe its contents, his oddly-coloured eyes roaming over its interior. His benign smile fell from his face when all he saw was a carton of orange juice. Louring, he stood upright and closed the door strenuously.

Ivan internally cursed. How could he have forgotten to run by the super market and restock on comestibles? The shops would all be closed now, meaning that he'd probably have to buy groceries at some dirty, shitty, run-of-the-mill, second-hand shop. It was either that or go to the gas station. Parting his lips to allow a sigh to escape him, the Russian psychologist ran a hand through his hair, taking a step back from the fridge. His hand came to a halt at the nape of his neck and Ivan craned his head up to stare emptily at the ceiling. Why hadn't he just bought his booze and perishables when he'd had the chance? Why hadn't he just gone out for what he needed during his lunch break? Coming to the horrifying realisation that he was probably going to have to skip breakfast come morning, Ivan released a loud groan of despair. He let his arm drop to his side and went to fetch his other wallet (Ivan kept two wallets- just in case). He used that specific wallet to purchase things of great interest to him, things that weren't all that necessary (countless watches, numerous paintings, bouquets of sunflowers, etc.- although whether or not the festoon of flora was indispensable was up for debate). His wallet was located in his bedroom, and so that was where he was headed.

Once Ivan had retrieved his wallet from his bedside table, he extracted a fifty dollar bill and plucked his other wallet out of his coat pocket. He opened it and slipped the bill inside. He pilfered the wallet back inside his pocket and took his leave.

Ivan moseyed towards the front door and left his apartment, letting the door slam shut behind him. He made sure that the door was properly locked before making his way down the stairs. He half-walked, half-jogged, rather eager to get to the pub as soon as was possible. He'd had a tiring day, after all; it was only fair that he be entitled to a few drinks. It was only a matter of seconds before he reached the landing and his gait quickened. He briefly contemplated on whether or not he should take his car, but eventually decided against that course of action. After all, the closest bar was only two blocks away. It would do him good to get some exercise.

Ivan exited the building, plunging his hands into his pocket to shield them from the cold. The air was much more chilling than it had been earlier and Ivan wondered how long he had even spent at his apartment. Certainly it couldn't have been that long, as he had only gone to drop off his briefcase and withdraw more money from his second wallet. Keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, Ivan walked at a brisk pace, eventually turning a corner when he came to a dead-end. It took Ivan no time at all in reaching the all-too familiar bar. He was a regular there, and so he knew that the bar was open until very late. At least, that's what he assumed. He had no idea how much of a surprise he would be in for, though. When Ivan got to the bar, he was regretfully met with cold, bitter disappointment. It was, as he had never suspected it would be, closed. Ivan inspected the leaflet tacked onto the door and felt a surge of disbelief mingled with anger at the following words, claiming that the bar was closed due to the staff members taking a trip to Canada for an extended weekend. The psychologist's previously cheery countenance darkened exponentially. Now what was he going to do?

Eyes scanning the area for any sign of another bar, Ivan caught a glimpse of a few drunks emerging from a narrow street. He watched on as they stumbled over their steps, struggling to stay upright as they roared in clamouring laughter. Ivan watched silently as one of them rested his hand firmly on another's shoulder for support as the third drunkard wandered off, keeling over slightly as he tripped over his own feet. They were headed straight towards him, steadily approaching with wonky steps, and Ivan briefly debated on whether or not he ought to confront them. He perished the thought immediately upon seeing one of them violently retch, vomit flying high up in the air before splattering back down on the cobbled street. The other two drunks laughed at the man's flustered face. Ivan grimaced, eyeing them cautiously as they staggered past him, not giving him a second glance. He could hear their slurred words and nonsensical giggles fade as he decided to investigate the area which they had just vacated. He took a step forward and began to walk, turning a corner when he came to one. He could briefly make out a signpost sticking out as he reached an alley. Despite common misconceptions about alleyways, this one was not dark or mysterious like the ones he read about in books (and, indeed, the ones he had often found himself in). On the contrary, the alley was decorated with festive lights and gave way to a wider street, which was also lined with colourful shops. Unlike the seemingly devoid, dangerous alleys that he had seen in the past, this one was filled with people either returning home or popping out for a drink. Ivan wandered around aimlessly, taking in the surprisingly beautiful sight that beheld him. He glanced around only to come to an abrupt halt when his eyes met with those of a child, gazing at him in wonderment and no doubt in awe of his towering height. Ivan smiled down at the child before pulling a face, earning a little giggle from the young kid. Ivan drew his eyes away only for them to land on what he'd been looking for- a bar.

Taking long strides towards the bar, he weaved through the crowd and shouldered past people when he had to (that is to say, when they did not get out of his way). It was only a matter of time before he reached his destination, his gaze completely locked on the old-fashioned sign that read 'The Unicorn's Revenge' in large, red, cursive writing. Upon closer inspection, Ivan mused that it resembled more of a pub than a bar, although he was hardly an expert on the differences between the two. As far as he was concerned, a pub was exactly the same as a bar and vice versa (although he knew a great deal of people who would argue that notion). Ivan continued completely undeterred and, when he had reached the entrance, outstretched a hand to clutch at the vertical-angled handle. He hauled the door open, sidestepping it so as not to accidentally whack himself in the face. He stepped inside only to almost step back out again, the overwhelming warmth that greeted him upon his entrance surprising him immensely. He had not expected it to be so swelteringly broiling, especially when it was but late October. It was true that it was getting rapidly colder as each day passed, however Winter seemed to be arriving late this year, what with this particular October being rather warm- well, for a month of Autumn, at least. So it was needless to say that he had not anticipated that it would be so warm inside.

Tugging at his scarf, Ivan resisted the urge to take it off as he sucked in a breath. It was so hard to breathe in here and Ivan was already unbuttoning his coat as quickly as he could. He was forced to keep it on, however, and his magenta-eyed gaze swept over the small pub. Had the temperature been lowered by a few degrees (Celsius, of course), Ivan suspected that it could've passed off as a rather cosy tavern- not that such a place existed in this part of the town. However, he couldn't deny that the place had a homey feel to it...

"Are you just going to stand there or what?" a very English-accented voice demanded brusquely, effectively snapping the Russian man out of his reverie. The psychologist turned startled eyes on an irate man standing behind the bar (no doubt the bartender), an annoyed scowl seemingly etched upon his face. The bartender's emerald green eyes bored holes into Ivan's magenta ones, an air of impatience radiating from him. He had dirty blond hair that stuck out at odd ends, shaggy and messy as it flopped down to encase his face. What got Ivan's attention the most, though, was the horrifying, cringe-worthy caterpillars plastered above the man's eyes. Ivan stared,...and he stared... and he stared. It took him a while to realise how rude this must seem from an outsider's point of view, so he willed himself to look away. But he couldn't; no matter how much he tried, he couldn't draw his attention elsewhere. It was like watching a car crash right before your eyes; it was mortifying and horrible, yet it was also so painfully enrapturing that you just _couldn't _look away.

The sound of someone clearing their throat rather pointedly made Ivan finally snap his eyes away from the horribly bushy eyebrows he had been ogling at. He saw the cocked eyebrow (don't look at it, don't look at it, don't look at it) on the bartender's face and smiled sheepishly. He made his way over to the counter and took an empty seat in the form of a wooden bar stool. The bartender was _all too happy_ to take his order.

"What will you be having tonight, _sir_?" the bartender all but spat. Ivan looked at him with a rather affronted expression. This bartender glared right back. Ivan didn't know whether or not he was just naturally uncouth or if it was just this particular night. Perhaps he, too, had had a stressful day?

"Vodka." Ivan replied with his trademark smile. It seemed to put the bartender on edge, for he shot him a wary look before fixing his drink. Ivan opted to use this time by watching the going-ons around him... which, to be quite frank, wasn't saying much. He was quite surprised to find that the place wasn't inhabited by elders looking for a pint- rather, this seemed like a sort of sanctuary for young alcohol-lovers. They seemed to have no trouble making themselves at home, some even using the low glass tables to prop their feet up while others had no qualms against drifting off to sleep on the comfortable-looking sofas. If this bothered the bartender, he sure didn't say anything. Ivan had the sneaky suspicion that if he were to do that, he'd get kicked out. Perhaps you had to be a regular to be privy to such privileges? Ivan shrugged. He didn't know, and he couldn't honestly say that he cared to find out. He preferred his own bar anyway.

A glass was slammed onto a coaster none-too-gently, Ivan not bothering to conceal his disappointment at the obvious lack of shot glasses that should have been lined up in front of him. It was just a regular glass, with nothing special nor out-of-the-ordinary about it. He had never before seen vodka delivered in regular glasses at a bar. He was about to voice his discontentment when the door to the bar opened again. Ivan watched the bartender greet the newcomer sourly before slowly mellowing out and begrudgingly smiling at whoever had walked in. The two engaged in more-or-less friendly conversation, which piqued Ivan's interest- he could honestly say that he did not care for the idle chatter of strangers, but there was something familiar about the newcomer's voice. He could've sworn he'd heard it somewhere before. Where did he know it from? It was familiar, oh-so familiar.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Ivan turned his own head around to catch a glimpse of who had entered- only to swivel his head back to its original place in a hurried snap. Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. How had he possibly forgotten _him_? That was a face he had certainly never imagined he would ever have the misfortune to see again. Ivan knew that it had been quite some time since he had last seen that face (a year) and he'd definitely not expected to see it again, let alone in some random pub who-knows-where. Ivan had difficulty grasping the concept that his former flatmate of five years was here. Shouldn't he be out of the country by now? Ivan lowered his head and hunched his shoulders, trying to hide his face from the newcomer. He most certainly did **not **want the young man who had just made his entrance to spot his visage; despite how long it had been, people didn't really change that much in a year (physically-wise), and Matthew would surely recognise him.

Footsteps could be heard coming to the bar at a slow pace, and Ivan ducked his head even lower. He turned his head to the side to gaze at the person to his left as Matthew apparently decided that the seat next to him would be a good place to sit. He heard Matthew place his order (whisky) and Ivan continued to stare at his other neighbouring fellow. Ivan raised his glass, a gnawing sense of dread forming in the pit of his stomach that just seemed to get worse with each passing moment. It clawed at his insides as he took a tentative sip, careful not to drop any hints that it was him who was sitting beside Matthew Williams. He wouldn't- couldn't- let Matthew see that he was sitting right next to him, in this lowly bar of all places. Ivan occupied himself by keeping his eyes locked on the man sitting to his left. It didn't take long before said man became aware that he was being watched and he threw a furtive glance Ivan's way, the apprehension and slight fear evident in his dark eyes. The man edged away and, the longer Ivan looked, the more uncomfortable he seemed to get. Finally, he had reached his last nerve. Instead of ordering Ivan to fuck off like the Russian psychologist had expected him to, the man merely took his drink and left in the hopes of finding another seat. Ivan sighed, completely oblivious to the pair of eyes staring at _him._

"Ivan?" a soft-spoken voice piped up, making the petitioned one's blood run cold, "Is that you?"

Eyelids slowly shutting over oddly-coloured eyes, Ivan took his time in turning around, unwillingly revealing himself to Matthew. He peeled his eyelids back to unveil his unique orbs of deep magenta, finally coming face-to-face with a young, golden-haired, violet-blue-eyed man, who was adorned with a pair of eyeglasses sitting comfortably over the bridge of his nose. His eyes twinkled in joy as they took in Ivan's appearance, much to the Russian psychologist's confusion. A warm smile blossomed on Matthew's face, threatening to split it in half.

"It is you! My goodness, it sure has been a while!"

Ivan hesitantly returned Matthew's smile with an awkward one of his own, "It has?"

Matthew released such a quiet little laugh that Ivan had to strain his ears to hear it, "If you count a year as a long time, then yes."

"A year? Has it really been that long?" at Matthew's grin of confirmation, Ivan remarked, "I hadn't even noticed."

Matthew's smile faltered just the tiniest bit, but he didn't seem angered or annoyed by his comment (which Ivan took as a good sign).

"Time has been kind to you, I see." Ivan noted in what he hoped was a complimentary tone, his large hand clenched around his glass of vodka.

The corners of Matthew's lips tugged upwards, "It's only been a year.; it's not like much has changed."

_You couldn't be more wrong, Matvey._

"I beg to differ; you're taller than you were a year ago." Ivan observed amicably. A breath of amusement escaped Matthew's lips.

"You think so?"

"Of course," Ivan assured, glancing back down at his glass, forcing himself to ask one of the first questions that popped up in his mind upon seeing his ex-flatmate and former best friend, "So... how have you been? Well, I hope?" Ivan foolishly added that last bit in spite of himself.

"I've been good," Matthew nodded, muttering a quiet "thank-you" as the bartender placed his drink in front of him (Ivan had to ponder the incompetence of this so-called bartender- after all, Matthew had ordered his drink ages ago, and no one else had ordered before him, so why he'd had to wait such a ridiculously long time was completely inconceivable) before looking back at Ivan with feigned cheeriness (Ivan was no fool- he could clearly see the evident sombreness mirrored in those violet-blue eyes), "Real good... what about you? You been doing okay?"

"I have been... well." Ivan lied. Straight after he'd gotten his degree in psychology (and, by extension, psychotherapy), he'd been constantly harassed with tons of paperwork since day one. It had been awfully stressful (it still was) and had taken a lot of getting used to before he was able to get a good night's sleep. Matthew clearly knew that this was a fallacy, however he thankfully decided not to comment on it.

"That's good to hear. Is being a psychologist as... fulfilling, as you'd hoped it would be?" Matthew queried lamely, uncertainty written all over his features. It was almost as if he believed his question to be stupid. If that was so, then Ivan was compelled to agree.

"Very much so. It feels good to do people some good," _for a change, _"So... is psychiatry all it's cracked up to be? I remember you were quite excited when you received your doctorate."

"Oh, it's amazing. It's very enjoyable," Matthew asserted, his expression reflecting ebullience, "I simply can't imagine a better job."

"Really?" Ivan questioned, his lips tweaking upwards ever-so-slightly.

"Yeah. It's been everything I could've hoped for." Matthew claimed, his eyes downcast as he supped his whisky.

"That's good."

And an awkward, tense silence soon descended upon them. They were sat next to each other, one rigidly and the other stiffly, as they drank in reticence, both clearly uncomfortable with the silence yet each unwilling to break it. Ivan stroked the rim of his glass with the pad of his thumb before slowly raising it up to his lips and downing it in one go. Ivan put it back down on the coaster and stared sullenly at his empty glass. It had tasted disappointingly weak. It lacked the fiery, passionate taste that every glass of vodka had to have. It simply wasn't strong enough, and Ivan found himself resenting the fact that he would have to pay for something as feeble as this. He raised a finger, hoping to get the bartender's attention; however, it seemed that today was not Ivan's lucky day as the bartender seemed busy enough himself. He was currently trying to chat a girl up, telling her a story about how he was a 'bad boy' at heart and once woke up at midday; needless to say, he was failing miserably in the areas of flirting, something which Ivan couldn't help but note with some amount of sadistic satisfaction. If Ivan had to hazard a guess, it was probably those monstrosities-of-eyebrows that threw her off. Of course, it could just be the bartender's pitiful lack of charm and rudeness that disinterested her. Or it could be that he was just so painfully boring (Ivan doubted anyone cared to know about that one time the so-called 'usually vivacious' bartender woke up late). Either way, she seemed completely apathetic to whatever came spewing out of his mouth. The young psychologist couldn't help but pity the poor girl. Ivan snapped his fingers together in order to get the bartender's attention. The previously semi-pleasant expression plastered on the bartender's face disintegrated immediately upon hearing the loud snap that Ivan had created with the use of his fingers. The bartender reluctantly left the girl (who glanced at Ivan in gratitude before hurriedly taking her leave) to face Ivan with an irritated scowl replacing his previously 'seductive' smile (which actually looked more like that of a creepy rapist's, but Ivan wouldn't divulge into the details).

"Yes? What is it?" the bartender snapped, striding over from the other side of the counter. Ivan was still surprised at his blatant crudeness- how did this seemingly pretentious bastard-of-a-bartender get any customers with that pungent attitude of his?

"I'd like a refill, please." Ivan requested politely. The bartender- who Ivan had long assumed was English (or had at least studied in England)- grumbled obscenities under his breath, bending down to pluck a tall, glass bottle from a hidden ledge found below the bar. He placed it atop the counter, allowing Ivan a clear view of just what kind of pitiful excuse of vodka the bartender was trying to poison him with. He was shocked to find that it was American vodka- a brand named 'Kirkland'. Ivan hated himself. He really, really did. He had no doubt that his beloved mother was rolling in her grave right now- how he had disgraced her. Oh, if only his dear mama knew that her one and only son had willingly drank _American _vodka- quite possibly the worst kind- oh, how there'd be hell to pay. If she were alive, she'd have had a second heart-attack by now and died again.

"Is that American vodka?" Ivan inquired before he could stop himself. He knew full well that that was American vodka; he just wanted the bartender to admit it before he pummelled the life out of him.

"Why yes, it is. Is that a problem?" the bartender asked snobbishly, although he did not miss the manic glint in Ivan's eye, only slightly visibly unnerved by it. Matthew remained silent beside him, although he, too, glanced up.

"As a matter of fact, it is. Don't you have... better vodka? Like Russian vodka?" at the glare thrown his way, Ivan promptly added, "Or Polish vodka. I'm not picky."

The bartender harrumphed, "Yet you have a problem with American vodka, oh the irony..."

Ivan's smile became more strained and forced with each word that came regurgitating out of the bartender's mouth, "Yes. Do you have any?"

The bartender didn't answer immediately; Ivan figured he did that simply to spite him. Then, the bush-brow responded shortly, "No."

_What kind of a fucking bar doesn't serve real vodka?!_  
>Ivan tried his best not to be too upset with that unsatisfactory answer, "Then would it be a problem if you did a mix? A mix of vodka and... whisky?"<p>

The bartender's upper lip curled into a snarl, although he eventually conceded, "What kind of whisky?"  
>"Scotch, preferably," Ivan's lips tugged upwards to form a deriding smirk, "That is, if you have any."<p>

The bartender scowled in a miffed manner, but thankfully hopped to it without another word. He rummaged about for a bottle of Scotch whisky (how could he not see that the bottles of whisky were right behind him?) and finally found what he was looking for. He set a slightly shorter, darker glass bottle on the counter and took another glass out of a high-up cabinet. He took the bottle of 'vodka' in one hand and the bottle of whiskey in the other, pouring sweet, sweet liquor into the glass from each bottle. He situated the glass on the coaster in front of Ivan, his green eyes gleaming with a particularly evil glint, "You do realise you'll have to pay for a glass of vodka and a glass of whisky, right?"

Ivan narrowed his own eyes at him, "I beg your pardon?"

"It's only fair to the other customers." the bartender drawled, grinning tauntingly as he went to the other side of the bar to attend to someone else's needs. Ivan's glare followed him. _Yeah, you run away..._

Burying his displeasure under layers of feigned calmness, Ivan picked the glass up off the coaster and lifted it up to his face, observing it through critical eyes. He deemed it drinkable much quicker than he would've liked. The bartender eyed Ivan distastefully and warily from the other side of the bar as Ivan sampled the hybrid drink. The liquid entered the confines of his mouth and he used his tongue to swirl it around, tasting the vodka-whisky before swallowing. He was surprised at how decent it tasted. The blend of whisky and 'vodka' helped take away the feeble taste of the latter, in favour of a stronger, more powerful one. He imbibed it all before pulling the glass away from his lips, smacking them as he did so. He immediately asked for another one pronto, which he received in a much longer time than he'd have liked. He practically inhaled it, all the while watching Matthew gradually sip his whiskey out of the corner of his eyes. Was he not finished yet?

"I haven't seen you before." the sharp remark made Ivan draw his attention back to the stuffy Englishman, who had apparently decided to come back to harass him, "Are you new to the area?"

Ivan contemplated his answer, "Kind of."

The bartender wrinkled his nose up and grimaced, "You're a tourist?"

"No, no, I live here. I have for about three months now." Ivan had no idea why he had just revealed that last tidbit of information.

"Oh." the bartender fell silent again. As the bartender did- whatever the hell he was doing-, Ivan found himself lost in an internal debate, struggling against his desire to keep his money and the need to have more drinks. In the end, he was forced to admit that alcohol was more important than money. After all, he had brought a fifty with him. It wasn't like he was some poor man blowing all his cash on drink after drink (despite the fact that his cousin thought he was heading that way).

"I'd like another." Ivan solicited boldly, not bothering with pleasantries and raising his empty glass in the air for emphasis. The bartender merely glanced up and lifted an incredulous bushy eyebrow, as if daring him to repeat that. Ivan was only to happy to oblige (although in a more genteel manner), "May I have another?"

The bartender's raised eyebrow did not waver nor did it return to its original position as Matthew questioned concernedly, "Another one? Don't you think you've had enough?"

"I've only had three drinks." Ivan insisted, brushing off Matthew's concern like it was nothing, "That's practically nix."

"It's pretty strong stuff, Iv-"

"Not strong enough, apparently. I need another one." Ivan interjected firmly, eyeing the two bottles of vodka and whisky that hadn't yet been removed from the counter (although admittedly, he was primarily staring at the whisky and avoiding that pathetic excuse-of-vodka). He ignored the uneasy look he garnered from Matthew.  
>Arthur gave an indifferent shrug as he happily poured him another. After all, it only meant more money for him. Matthew, however, shot him a worried glance and voiced his misgivings, "You should really slow down with the binging, Ivan."<p>

"Binging? I am not binging." Ivan denied in a light tone, smiling chipperly. Matthew didn't seem convinced.

"Well take it easy, won't you? I've heard you've taken a liking to drinking everyday-"

"It is healthy to drink daily, da?"

"-and it's been worrying your family."

Ivan blinked, processing this new information (even though he had already known, it was different hearing it from someone other than his family members), "How would you know that?"

Matthew paused hesitantly, his eyes narrowing as if he were pondering his response, "You mean she didn't tell you?"

Oh great. Now Matthew was playing the pronoun game so that Ivan would be forced to ask 'Who?'. Great. "Who didn't tell me?"

Matthew opened his mouth tentatively before closing it again. "Never mind." Matthew bowed his head and kept his eyes downcast as he stared down at his glass of whisky (which still wasn't finished). Ivan turned his attention back to his own glass. He wrapped a large hand around it and raised it up to his face. He parted his lips and placed the rim of the glass between them, tilting it upwards to let the liquor trickle down his throat, his thirst finally feeling sated for the first time that day. For a split second, it felt like a blazing inferno had ignited in his pharynx. His throat seared with hot, fiery pain before the burning died out completely. His throat no longer felt aridly dry, much to his immense relief. He finished his drink and set the glass back down on the coaster. His eyes met with captious, emerald orbs eyeing him hypercritically. Ivan stared right back at the Englishman, who now held a dirtied rag in his possession as he scrubbed at the counter indignantly, attempting to rid the counter of non-existent stains. He pumiced the counter vigorously, clearly not paying attention to what he was doing, training his beryl-green eyes on Ivan.

"Where are you from?" he questioned out of the blue. Ivan raised a brow.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just curious." the Englishman replied curtly. Ivan eyed him, suspicion clear in his deep violet orbs, evidently considering the bartender's question. He decided that he found no harm in being vague with his response.

"Well, I moved here from Vermont-"

"That's not what I meant," heckled the stuffy Brit impolitely, "I mean where do you come from? Originally?"

"Oh." Ivan furrowed his eyebrows, making them crease slightly, "I am Russian, if that is what you mean."

"Hmm," the bartender hummed, "I thought so. You've got that thick accent; you know, the common one found in Eastern Europe."

Ivan didn't really know how to respond to that, so he simply smiled and turned the tables on the bartender, "You are from England, yes?"

"How could you tell?" the bartender muttered sardonically. Ivan could clearly detect the sarcasm in the man's voice, but he decided to humour him for ribbing's sake.

Ivan blinked, "Well, the accent, for one thing-"

"Oh, it was the accent?" the bartender gibed, interrupting Ivan mid-sentence, "That's a first."

"Judging by your stodgy accent, is it safe to assume that you are from London?" Ivan inquired curiously.

Decidedly ignoring Ivan's quip about his accent, the bartender corrected, "Actually, I'm from Greenwich."

Was it just Ivan, or did he detect a hint of pride in the Englishman's tone?

"But," Ivan furrowed his eyebrows, donning a pensive expression, "isn't Greenwich in London?"

The bartender scowled, "No. Greenwich is a district of Greater London. There's a difference."

Ivan didn't think it would be in his best interests to point out that there was barely any divergence.

"So... you're Russian then?"

"That is what I said."

The bartender snorted, "Explains the vodka."

"I suppose it does." Ivan agreed nonchalantly. The English bartender eyed him for a while longer before posing the question, "How do you like it here?"

Ivan replied honestly, "It's not bad."

"Better or worse than Russia?"

"There are some aspects of both." Ivan readily answered. If the bushy frown plastered on the Brit's face was anything to go by, this was apparently not the answer he had been hoping for. However, the bartender didn't press as he snatched a random glass that lay on the table and began wiping it with the dirtied cloth. Ivan rose a sceptic eyebrow, but did not comment as the bartender stashed the glass away.

The bartender's emerald eyes watched both Ivan and Matthew in silence, darting from the Russian to the Canadian, before he jerked his head in Ivan's direction, clearly addressing Matthew, "Do you two know each other?"

"Why do you want to know?" Ivan blurted out, his tone taking on an accusatory underlying. The bartender raised his eyebrows.

"No reason. I was just making conversation," the bartender defended in a placating manner, his eyes narrowing slightly, "There isn't a problem with that, is there?"

Ivan hesitated for a while before tentatively notifying, "No. No there isn't."

"Hmm." the bartender turned his pointed gaze back on Matthew, "So... I take it you do know each other then?"

Matthew's eyes flicked up, cupping his drink in both hands, before looking at Ivan, "Yes."

The bartender grunted apathetically, "Friends?"

"Used to be." Matthew readily admitted (much to Ivan's chagrin), his smile holding a tint of sadness. His words sent a pang of pain to Ivan's closed-off, ice-cold heart. He knew that Matthew spoke the truth, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt any less. Ivan pointedly ignored the look of disapproval the bartender sent his way (he didn't know why the man looked at him in such a scrutinising manner, but then again, he didn't really care either).

Luckily for both of them, the bartender decided not to pry. His caterpillar-like eyebrows furrowed at Matthew as he promptly changed the subject, "Are you still coming over this Saturday for the big game?"

"Of course," Matthew guaranteed before tacking on, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

The bartender smiled, "So I can expect you at six pm, yes?"

"Absolutely. I'll bring dessert."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Matthew," the Brit assured, "I've got it all covered."

Ivan watched as the words slowly seemed to register in Matthew's head and he froze. The Canadian psychiatrist bit his lip and looked up at the bartender, "Just to be clear... you won't be the one cooking, will you?"

The bartender barked a laugh, although his eyes screamed bloody murder, "Why? Surely my cooking's not that bad, is it?"

Matthew opened his mouth to answer but the stuffy Brit shot him a look that dared him to say otherwise. Luckily for Matthew, he didn't need to reply as two new customers entered the bar.

"Well, I hope you'll excuse me gents." the bartender excused himself to take his new customers' orders, leaving the two former best friends alone. Ivan couldn't help but remark that his tone had been a lot lighter and jovial than when he'd spoken to him alone- perhaps Matthew had had an influence on him? Speaking of Matthew...

"What's your relation to him?" Ivan catechised as soon as the bartender was out of earshot. He hadn't really given it much thought before, but he did recall Matthew and the bartender being awfully friendly with each other. He'd heard them when Matthew first entered and the conversation he had just bared witness to was proof enough that the two were more than just mere acquaintances. Matthew turned violet-blue eyes on him, curiosity written all over his features.

"Arthur? Oh, he's just a friend of the family." Matthew waved Ivan's question away casually, finally finishing his drink. Ivan marvelled at how anyone could take that long to down their glass of whisky.

"I see."

An autocratic, uncomfortably taut silence reigned over them once more. Ivan glanced mournfully down at his empty glass, avoiding eye contact at all costs. The bartender- now known as 'Arthur'- wasn't paying attention, too busy catering to his new customers' every whim (albeit reluctantly), and Ivan briefly wondered how much a chance he had of hopping over the bar and fixing a drink for himself without getting noticed...

A barely audible sigh drew Ivan's attention away from his thoughts and made him turn his head to the side to look at the despondent face of Matthew. His former flatmate kept giving him the occasional fleeting glance, as if trying to come up with good source material to strike up a conversation. For the first time that night, Ivan felt a teensy, teenie, tiny pang of guilt and pity directed towards his ex-best friend. Here he was, too immersed in his own parsimonious thoughts to even take Matthew's into consideration. Sometimes, when he was alone, Ivan often wondered what Matthew thought of him these days- if he ever thought about him at all. Now just so happened to be one of those times. Hoping to break this suffocating silence, Ivan parted his lips and formed a question in his mind, bracing himself for what he was about to say, only for his unspoken words to die on his tongue. Uncharacteristically losing his nerve, Ivan bowed his head, his mauve-coloured eyes downcast as he mentally berated himself for not having the courage to speak up. That was supposed to be Matthew's jurisdiction, not his. Although to be fair, Matthew wasn't making much of an effort either...

"I-" Matthew finally spoke up, effectively drawing Ivan's attention. Ivan stared at him, containing the urge to tell him to go on as Matthew swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he did so. He shamefully glanced down and Ivan could tell that he wasn't going to continue. It appeared that Matthew, too, did not seem to have it in him to shatter this overbearingly asphyxiating taciturnity. They remained in silence, mulishly ignoring each other. They watched as Arthur argued with the customers over the quality of alcoholic beverages and which drinks were better. As much as Ivan wanted to side against Arthur, he was begrudgingly forced to agree- Belgian beer was much better than Irish. It was rather amusing really, watching Arthur fight with the two ginger Irishmen- who in turn began to argue with each other. Ivan knew it was silly, but he couldn't quite quench the childish urge to jump up on the counter and yell 'Fight, fight, fight!'. It would be so funny to see them brawl. Then he could just sit back and enjoy the show.

"Listen, Ivan-," Matthew decidedly broke the silence. It was strange, because as much as Ivan hadn't anticipated that he would do so, he had also kind of expected it. Matthew inhaled profoundly before continuing, "-would you like to go out and have a drink with me sometime?"

Ivan blinked blankly, "Is that a date, Mister Williams?"

Matthew rolled his eyes and corrected, "It's an invitation. I was-" he paused to take in a deep breath, "I was just thinking we could catch up. I'm really interested in hearing what's happened to you during my... my absence." Matthew's soft and strangely mollifying voice had gotten quieter and quieter with each passing word until the only things that came out of his mouth were his silent breaths.

Ivan couldn't honestly say he knew how to respond to that. What was he supposed to say? 'Yes, I'd love to go out for a pint with you, despite the fact that we haven't spoken in a little over a year and and the last letter I received from you was nine months ago. But sure, I'd love to go out with an old friend who may or may not have turned into an axe-murderer.' Yeah, that'd sure go over well... Okay, so maybe he was being a tad melodramatic, but he saw the stuff on the news these days. Old friends looking to reconnect with each other ending up dead because their former friend decided that the world was better off without them. Ivan gazed at Matthew's face and it took just one look to know that, no matter how much Matthew may have changed, he hadn't gone all axe-crazy yet.

Yet.

"It's alright if you don't want to. I understand." Matthew muttered in barely repressed adversity.

Ivan stared at him through conflicted eyes. Nothing could erase what had happened in the past, and the wounds were still too fresh to fully heal, but maybe, just maybe, Matthew really wanted to start anew. A new start. Ivan had to admit that he didn't mind the sound of that. He had been lacking in friends lately. Besides, it wasn't like Matthew was looking to be best friends again- he just wanted to catch up. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all. And Ivan had to admit, the thought of going out for a drink was awfully tempting. It didn't take very long before Ivan reached a conclusion. After all, just one drink couldn't be too bad...

...Could it?

"I'd be honoured to." the Russian psychologist relented, offering Matthew what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

The Canadian psychiatrist beamed in return, "You don't know how happy it makes me to hear that, Ivan."

Ivan allowed a small, slightly awkward smile to grace his childish face. Ivan really wished that he could say that after that, conversation flowed more freely. He really, really wished that he could. However, that would be a falsehood, and as much as he wanted to be able to talk without feeling unbearably distressed, he simply didn't have anything to say. After all, what do you say to someone who used to be your best friend for a large portion of your life? Are you just supposed to pick things back up where they left off (in this case, that would probably be a bad idea)? Ivan didn't know. He wasn't a very sociable person, despite his profession; he did know, however, that Matthew was just as socially inept as he was, if not more so...

...Which made their current predicament all the more awkward.

"Do you have a phone number I can call you with?" Matthew queried, his hand reaching into the pocket of his black jacket for his wallet.

Ivan watched as the Canadian procured a small, slip of paper from his wallet and replied, "Of course."

Matthew threw him a large smile, "Here," he placed his hand over the paper and slid it towards Ivan. Ivan caught the paper under the palm of his hand and continued to stare at Matthew, waiting for the psychiatrist to provide him with a pen. Matthew didn't seem to get the message, however, a confused look crossing over his expression, his violet-blue eyes reflecting his perplexity. "Is something the matter? You haven't forgotten your number, have you?"

"You haven't given me a pen."

"A pe-," Matthew's eyes enlarged at the realisation, "Oh, that's right! I haven't given you a pen- silly me! Hang on." Matthew dug his hands into his pockets, foraging about for a pen. He didn't find one, though, and glanced up with an apologetic expression. Ivan was about to tell him that it didn't matter, but Matthew had other ideas. In a manner that was atypical of him, Matthew obstreperously called out, "Hey, Artie!"

The bartender turned to face him from where he was conversing with a regular, his caterpillar-like eyebrows knitting together, "Yes?"

"Do you have a pen I could borrow?" Matthew asked politely, his eyes widening imploringly.

A contemplative expression wound its way on the Englishman's face, "I'll have to check. Wait here a moment."

Ivan and Matthew eyed Arthur attentively as he set off in search for a pen. It was not a minute later before the barkeep returned, a ballpoint pen in hand. Matthew sat up straight as the elder blond approached, waiting for Arthur to deposit the pen in his upturned palm. Arthur did so quickly, ambling past to dutifully refill an order as the sound of a raucous request resonated from a nearby customer.

Matthew handed the pen over to Ivan silently, who uncapped it with a loud pop. He jotted down his number quickly, his eyes going over it once more after he had finished to make sure he hadn't made any mistakes. He placed the cap over the pen and pressed it down with the pad of his thumb. He handed the slip of paper back to Matthew, who accepted it graciously before pocketing it in his wallet. He fished out a tenner and beckoned the bartender over again, "Arthur!"

The bartender raised his index finger as he brought over a pint of Guinness over to a dark-haired man. The brunet paid Arthur, who stashed the coins in his till before sauntering over. Matthew handed the tenner to Arthur, who accepted it without a word. He soon returned with some change and, before a stream of protests could spill out from the psychiatrist's mouth, Arthur grabbed a hold of the younger man's hand and thrust a fiver in it. He released his grip on the Canadian and bade him farewell, "Goodbye, Matthew. I'll see you on Saturday."

"Goodbye, and goodnight." Matthew returned, watching as Arthur left. He redirected his attention to Ivan, who seemed to be waiting for his own farewell.

"You are leaving now?"

Matthew nodded the affirmative, "That's right. It's pretty late and I have a busy day ahead tomorrow."

"That makes two of us."

"Yeah... say, is it alright if I give you a call next weekend?"

"Of course. I have nothing planned then." Ivan informed after a brief moment of contemplation.

Matthew grinned, "Excellent! I'll speak to you then."

Ivan smiled awkwardly, "Okay."

"Well, goodnight, Ivan. It was nice seeing you." Matthew slipped off the bar stool, zipping his jacket up and tucking his wallet inside his pocket. He gave Ivan a little wave before setting off. The Russian psychologist watched him exit through the door and wander back home. In spite of himself, Ivan couldn't help but feel a heavy weight lift off his shoulders. It felt nice, finally having someone he could go out to the pub with. He supposed he did the right thing by accepting Matthew's offer, but one could never be too sure.

He'd just have to wait and see.

**A/N: I know. It sucks. I just really wanted to post a story today because this day means a lot to me, so I kind of rushed it (especially the end). If you feel like anything is wrong or amiss, please tell me! If I've made any spelling mistakes, I apologise profusely. It's quite late and I kinda rushed it because as it happens, I'm quite pressed for time (no excuse, I know). This is also the first time I write anything serious. I really appreciate the time you took to read this, and I'm sorry if it was a waste of your time. In other news, 'Kirkland' is the name of a real brand of American vodka- yes, really. It amused me greatly. Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed this. It doesn't really feel like a psychology story yet, but I'll be sure to change that soon. Constructive criticism is most welcome, as is any kind of feedback (although please don't flame). Please review (it really gives me an insight on what readers think). Have a pleasant day and have a happy Halloween! :)**


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